


What You Mean

by notenoughtogivebread



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [14]
Category: Glee
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Near Future, Playful Sex, mentions of other relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notenoughtogivebread/pseuds/notenoughtogivebread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent 2015 prompt Passion. (Kurt muses on what sex has meant to him and Blaine; set the first Valentines Day of their married life)</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Mean

Sex with Blaine, Kurt mused, had been so many things. In their first days, it was probably awkward, but it didn’t FEEL like that. Every touch, every privilege just woke a sense of awe in him, that this boy, this body, should be for him. So they were tender, so tender with each other. 

It had been a grace, a gift, and if for a while he had been struck with the seriousness of being a boy who mattered, eventually that gave way to playfulness. Blaine was actually a very silly boy at heart, after all. So those nights of discovery and reverence turned into summer afternoons teasing by the Anderson’s pool, and illicit midnight skinny dipping in the lake with Sam—and sometimes Brittany. Which led to laughter and wine-scented kisses in Blaine’s room. If he was still a little afraid of how his desire made him feel out of control, if he still didn’t understand his passion for this boy, or (even more) Blaine’s passion for him, Blaine made it okay with smiles and games. 

God, Blaine had this game—“Follow the Nose,” he called it. He’d reminded Kurt of it just last week, giggling over some essay he was writing for a lit class—“Do you know just how MANY nicknames the Elizabethans had for dicks?” Blaine himself had never quite gotten over the habit of calling Kurt’s cock his little buddy. 

They’d been up in Blaine’s room, their wet bodies chilled by the air conditioning. And Blaine was using toweling Kurt off as an excuse to explore his body quite thoroughly. He’d peeled off Kurt’s swim trunks and went to work warming up that little buddy as Kurt lay back in bed, giggling. 

“Hey, Kurt. Look,” Blaine said, lifting his head from nuzzling at his boyfriend’s belly and half-interested cock. 

He leaned up on his elbows and looked down at Blaine, half-sprawled on the bed, his hips and the wet swimsuit canted up and off the sheets. He looked completely ridiculous, and so hot Kurt could barely look at him. 

“What am I looking at?” he asked, as Blaine nosed up along the length of his cock. 

“This. Watch.” And he inched away, breaking into a delighted grin as Kurt’s now very interested cock twitched toward the warmth of his breath. 

“He likes me, Kurt. He follows me around,” he crowed, moving to nuzzle the cock and then withdrawing on the other side. “Isn’t that the best?” 

“My…it’s not a puppy, Blaine.” He laughed. “Honestly, are you going to paint a little face on it and do a puppet show next?” 

“I so should. Where’s that eyeliner?” Blaine replied, scrambling off the bed. 

“No, no, no,” Kurt chuckled, following after and grabbing his friend by the waist. “That would tickle.” He pushed Blaine’s wet suit down and spanned his rounded ass. “I have a better idea—God, your butt is so COLD. Where’s that towel? I want to see if yours will do the same thing.” 

And Blaine was right. It WAS delightful to see his body respond with longing separate from Blaine’s own desire. 

They spent so many afternoons that summer like that, afternoons of giggles and tickles, of discovering just how difficult 69 could be if you were two easily distracted boys. (“Blaine, I think you came in my eye.” “What did I say, Kurt? You need to keep your eye on the _balls_.”) 

Kurt smiled now, lying next to his sleeping husband in their tiny Brooklyn apartment, thinking of those boys—so hopelessly young and sweet, so full of dreams of happy ever after. He was glad now that he could look back at that time with fondness. Because after that, for a time, sex for Kurt was complicated and confusing, and remembering those innocent days had brought only pain. 

His memories of Blaine had for a long time been colored by betrayal, yes, but also by his boyfriend’s sadness and air of resignation as Kurt’s time of leaving Ohio drew near. He hadn’t at first understood what Blaine's clinging meant, probably didn’t understand it until after their broken engagement, when the emptiness nested in his own heart. But when he was leaving for New York, it was with an eye to the future. He’d been so set on steeling himself for the hard battle to come that Blaine’s neediness had seemed just a fly to be brushed away. Or something that could be dealt with in time. And then that neediness was nothing compared to his boyfriend’s desperate act of sabotage. 

By the time they had any chance to be together again, this _thing_ had settled into Kurt. His simmering anger and distrust seemed to become part of him, and he learned what it meant for sex with Blaine at Christmastime. 

His dad had been not so softly snoring in Rachel’s bed, and Kurt couldn’t sleep, didn’t _want_ to sleep, to miss that reminder that Burt was still here. His restlessness brought him out to the living room, to stand looking at the tree, at his mom’s old perfume bottle nestled in the branches. The sadness felt like a presence in the room, pushing down on his shoulders, but he remained upright, his eyes clouded. And then Blaine sat up from his nest on the couch, blinking owlishly at him and whispering, “What can I do?” 

It flashed through Kurt, then, and he almost let loose with all the words he hadn’t said, but he didn’t want to silence the snores. Instead, he crossed to the couch and stood looking down at Blaine, then threaded his hand through the loosened curls at the back of his neck. “You could help me to forget.” 

He hadn’t thought a person could have sex and still stay so cold, so apart from it, from his own body, from Blaine’s sorrowful eyes. But as he fed his cock into that soft, familiar mouth, felt the caress of Blaine’s tongue, allowed him to pull him closer with his strong hands flexing on the back of Kurt’s thighs, he discovered that a person could do that. That _he_ could do that. 

When he’d come, he pulled away; when Blaine reached for him, he made to deny him, but his friend insisted, rising to stand close, resting his hand on Kurt’s cheek until he met his eyes. “I _meant_ it. I’ll ALWAYS be there for you. Whatever you need.” 

“I need him not to be sick.” 

Blaine’s voice was small in answer. “Me too.” Only then did he let himself be drawn into Blaine’s embrace. 

And that’s how sex was for Kurt for a long time after. Smiling, eager Adam never got the whole of Kurt, though he coaxed and teased, was quite enthusiastic himself in bed. He didn’t seem to notice Kurt’s hesitation when he first slipped his hand into Adam’s pants to encounter his uncut cock, though he had certainly noticed that Kurt knew what to do to bring him pleasure. He’d slipped his tongue gently inside, little kitten licks between the foreskin and the head, relishing the feel and taste, lost in memory. He was almost irritated when Adam drew attention to his familiarity; did Adam _want_ Blaine in this bed? But his British schoolmate just accepted Kurt’s diffidence as part of him, not knowing him as a tender-hearted boy, but as a sarcastic survivor of NYADA’s halls. 

The plan was to never be that vulnerable again, and he wasn’t, not when he took Blaine to bed at Mr. Schu’s wedding, not even when he returned to New York with a ring on his finger. He could go to clubs with Elliott or the girls, dance with beautiful dancers and models, let them press up against him, revel in the feel of their hands all over him. But there was part of him that stood on the side looking on, and that remained true even after Blaine joined them in the loft. 

He’d learned, after they fell so completely apart, after he gave words to the feeling of wrongness between them and pushed away HARD, just how holding back had damaged them. Len, the counselor Artie found for him through friends from school, helped him unpack it all. God, what a mess he’d been, wanting, even needing Blaine, but so distrustful of his own heart that he held it out of Blaine’s reach. And Blaine trying so hard to be what Kurt wanted, so guilty, so self-hating (Kurt knew that NOW, but he hadn’t understood it then), putting himself in Kurt’s hands to do as he pleased. 

And there were nights when he did just that, when Blaine’s body was just a canvas to work out his frustrations, nights when he pushed Blaine’s head down into his bed and took from his body the pleasure he sought, his grip too tight, his mouth too full of teeth, pulling, biting, marking. Blaine would be wrung out after, would flop over to look up at him, his eyes feverish with—what? He hadn’t asked, hiding behind his walls, telling himself that this was the way it was between _men,_ and that their relationship before had been too childish, too full of unrealistic dreams. Hadn’t Blaine said as much during one of their many fights? After he came on so strong in combat class, lost control really? 

Kurt laughed ruefully now, looking back on that willful blindness. He could see now that whenever Blaine gave him a glimpse inside, he just saw pain, the roiling mess of Blaine’s insecurities. And those days, he wasn’t doing a whole lot of looking too closely at _anyone’s_ pain, least of all his own. 

That late summer afternoon in Len’s Chelsea office, when he pushed past all the WORDS they had used in their fights and looked in his mind’s eye at the two of them, reeling from yet another loss, playing at being grownups, and afraid, so very afraid, he found that all the reasons and the arguments and the little irritations were swept away by compassion. And he felt so foolish and so alone. 

He'd found himself telling Len about Prom Night and Blaine’s Sadie Hawkins dance, and how brave the little guy had been, and how devoted. And maybe he cried a little, for both of those sweet boys, so terrified and yet wearing their bravery in their matching pink carnations. And he told him of the boy in the sunshine yellow suit, trying to WILL them forward, and him dressing so carefully in Peacock blue, hoping for the eyes of Janus to see into that future Blaine was claiming for them. He left that office feeling like he finally KNEW the battle he was fighting, and he stopped pretending that he didn’t want Blaine at his side, hand out, asking, “May I have this dance?” 

The icy rain that had been falling all night rattled against the window in the corner of their tiny Brooklyn bedroom. He checked his watch for the time, and slipped out of bed and down the hall to start the coffee—and make some Valentine preparations. 

The smell of the brownies wafted down the dark hallway, and Blaine followed them. “Why are you _baking_ at like”—he blinked at the clock on the microwave—“4:00 in the morning?” 

Kurt turned from the oven, his mind full of his meditations, almost dropping the pan of brownies at the sight of his sleepy-eyed, tousle-headed, very naked husband. He held out the heart-shaped pan to Blaine. “I was making us a breakfast treat.” 

“Kurt. That’s so sweet.” Blaine poked at the hot brownies with their dark swirl of strawberry glaze and asked,” When will they be cool enough to eat? And what the heck is in them? They look incredible.” 

“It’s a strawberry balsamic reduction. I might have found a Buzzfeed article on sexy brownies for Valentine’s Day.” 

“Of course you did. But here’s my quandary,” Blaine said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out what looked like an old takeout box from the back, showing that it contained a casserole dish. “I have this cheese strata I was going to put in the oven at 5 so we could have breakfast together today. We’re both gonna be so busy later today, and I didn’t want to miss our first married Valentine’s.” 

“Well, the oven’s still warm, so I suppose you could put it in now, but Blaine, you weren’t REALLY planning to cook naked, were you?” 

Blaine’s grin was wolfish. He placed the casserole down next to the sink and said, “No, I’m dressed like this because I was looking for you.” And he stepped between his husband’s legs to pull him into a passionate kiss, his hands wandering under Kurt’s pajama top. 

“Oh. Casserole in oven, you in bed. We have—how long?” 

Blaine smiled into Kurt’s neck. “An hour.” 

“Oh, the things I could do to you with an hour.” 

Blaine took his hand, barely giving him leeway to shove the pan into the oven, and pulled him down the hallway. “Let’s say we start with that hour, and then maybe we can have breakfast in bed, and then…” 

This—their warm little apartment, the smell of the foods they had prepared as gifts for each other hanging in the air, those warm amber eyes—this was what he had fought for. Blaine hovered over him, wearing their comforter like a cape, keeping the warmth in. He held his gaze—“No closing your eyes, Kurt”—and lowered down to take him in. The clench of Blaine’s body, the flex of his legs as he rose and fell, his hands steady on Kurt’s chest—these were the anchors of Kurt’s whole world. 

“See. Isn’t it amazing?” Blaine asked, as Kurt fought the urge to close his eyes and give himself up to sensations. 

“What’s amazing?” 

“You are. You are so distractingly beautiful. I want to swim in the seas of your eyes. Thank you for letting me see them.” 

The thing is, Blaine had ALWAYS given him permission to pour out all of himself, even as Kurt held back. And when he finally learned how not to do that, Blaine was there again, ready to trust again, to try again. So now, sex was—god, it was passion and laughter and love. It was the best thing between them, and that was saying a hell of a lot.


End file.
